


Heart and Soul (Never Mine To Own)

by prouvairablehulk



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M, Reunion Fic, episode coda, post Fellowship of the Spear, this is just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 17:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10541436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairablehulk/pseuds/prouvairablehulk
Summary: No, Mick thinks, he’s never belonged to anyone but Len.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless porn reunion fic. Title from "Devil Like Me" by Rainbow Kitten Surprise

They go back to the Vanishing Point. 

It’s the home base that the Legion has been using, and it gives Mick hives even looking at it, after all the shit the Time Masters put him through and losing Len all in one go. But there is Len, strong and warm and real at Mick’s side, and isn’t that the only reason Mick is here? 

Darkh swaggers off the ship with the spear and a certain kind of cockiness that a man who knows he’s going to be murdered by the Green Arrow really shouldn’t possess, and Mick braces himself to do the same, only to have Len’s hand wrap tight around his wrist, anchoring him in place. 

“We’re not going back there just yet.” he tells Mick. Mick raises an eyebrow, half-turns away from the door so he can get a better look at Len. Lenny’s smiling, a little weak half-thing that suggests that he’s got multiple aces up his sleeve. It’s always been one of Mick’s favorite expressions on Lenny, because it promises either a good job or a good job of another sort entirely and honestly at this point Mick wouldn’t care which. Len’s alive. That’s everything Mick had known was impossible, crammed into a momentary chance, a single decision that he made without a second’s pause. 

“Aren’t we?” asks Mick. 

Len doesn’t respond with words, just that same wry grin, the one that says ‘I have plans’, the one Mick’s been used to seeing for almost thirty years. Mick had resigned himself to never seeing that smirk again, and for a moment he has to stop, just take a moment to try and get his heart out of his throat. 

“Mick?” asks Len, his forehead creasing in concern. 

“You’re here.” says Mick. “You were gone. You left me. I didn’t – I –“

Len takes a step closer, brings himself within the range of Mick’s arms. 

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Len takes his time to look up at Mick, his eyes dead serious and level and strong. That blue – Mick had burnt every scrap of blue in his quarters in the month after Len’s death, unable to handle the constant barrage of memories that accompanied it. 

“You can’t promise that. You could still be in my head.” 

Len’s eyes change. There’s a hardness behind them that hadn’t been there before, his Lenny’s bullheaded stubbornness. Halluci-Len never looked like that. Mick has a moment to wonder what new idea Len’s set his mind to before Len’s moving, rushing forward and using his lower center of mass to shove Mick back. They go stumbling together for a half moment before Mick’s back is against the wall of the ship, Len pressed up against Mick’s chest, one hand curling up the side of his face.

“What did they do to you?” murmurs Len. “How did they let you get like this?”

With Len pressed up against him, Mick’s starting to feel like he can breathe again, like there’s a whole part of his heart that’s beating for the first time. With Len back here, present and permanent, it’s like there’s a whole part of his identity that’s returned – with Len as his modifying adjective, he’s real again. But Lenny’s nothing as changeable as an adjective. Lenny’s a noun in his own right, one in the genitive case, claiming Mick’s very existence. 

“They didn’t know.” says Mick. “It’s not like we told them. And I certainly didn’t.” 

“And that excuses them letting you spiral?”

“They can’t help if they don’t know the cause.”

“Are you gonna run back home and tell them that? Tell them everything? Wait for them all to bring out the platitudes for the widower?” 

Len’s all the way up in Mick’s space now, breathing the question into Mick’s ear. 

“Do you want me to?” Mick asks, fully aware that he’s playing with fire. Lenny’s got no intention of letting him go anywhere, and Mick’s not planning on leaving. But there’s something that’s missing, and Mick’s been pushing Lenny’s buttons for long enough to know how to get it. 

Len’s face twists up in something that’s almost a snarl, and then they’re kissing. 

It’s not a nice kiss – not the sort of reunion kiss that would happen if Kendra showed up on the ship asking for Ray, not the kind that Red would be sharing with his beloved Iris, not the kind he’s sure Nate and Amaya are swapping at the moment. It’s hard, angry, biting. Mick can feel the blood welling up from the point where Lenny’s teeth have scraped his bottom lip raw when Len finally pulls back. 

“Don’t even think about it.” Len snaps. “You’re not going anywhere now I’ve got you back.” 

He dives back in with a fierceness that has Mick clutching at any part of Len’s back he can reach, and pulls back with equal suddenness. 

“Lenny-“ Mick gasps, and Len’s grinning, that loud-bass, smoky-low grin that speaks to nothing but filth to come. 

“You’re mine.” Len tells him, and Mick feels like the piece of him that had been missing has been handed back to him with a shiny golden bow wrapped around it. 

“Yes.” he tells Len, and it’s low and fervent, like a prayer. “Yes, I am.” 

“What are you, Mickey?” purrs Lenny, pushing his hands under the stiff uniform coat that Mick’s still wearing. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Yours, yours.” Mick swears, promises, and presses into Len’s hands. Len shoves the coat off Mick’s shoulders, wraps his hands around Mick’s suspenders and starts pulling. 

“Boss-“ starts Mick, even as he follows easily. Len looks over his shoulder, eyes visibly dilating at the address. He pulls harder, and Mick lets him, crowding close into Len’s back, finally back where he should be. Len hauls them through a door into what had once been living quarters for a Time Master, now clearly taken as Len’s space, filled with Len’s usual nest of blankets and piles of pillows. Mick only gets a second to take that in before Len’s toppling him down to the bed, letting him bounce for a second before following, swinging a leg over Mick’s hips and rocking a few times, until he gets comfortable. Mick groans and curls his hands around Len’s hips, only for Len to grab his wrists. 

“Oh, no, you are not in charge here.” Len admonishes, for all the world like a teacher about to wag his finger. “Up.” 

Mick rocks up, just as instructed, and helps yank down the suspenders and strip off his shirt, only for Len to shove him straight back down with a flat hand in the middle of his now-bare chest. Len smirks, shifts again in a way that’s not about comfort and is absolutely about making little teasing grinds against Mick, and then sits off. 

“Shoes. Now.” Len orders, no wiggle room involved, already pulling his own shirt over his head. Mick looks at him for one more moment, drinking in yet another thing he thought he’d never get again, and then dives for the laces on his boots. When he gets back upright again, Lenny’s waiting, strong and comfortable, with an appreciative look in his eyes – a heat, even – that Mick’s been missing. 

Mick’s just been missing Len. This is what it comes down to. 

Len shoves him back down on his back and takes up residence sitting on his thighs again, smoothing his hands across Mick’s skin. He dives in for another anchoring, deep, warm kiss, and then sets his lips against the place where Mick’s jaw meets his neck and sinks his teeth in. Mick jerks, suddenly gasping for air, rolling his hips up as much as he can, fingers scrabbling at Len’s back. There will be lines there when this is done, long pink marks that claim Len as Mick’s once more. 

“Mine.” hisses Len, and bites down again, this time on the opposite side. Christ God, if this is Len’s plan, Mick’s going to be a mess in five minutes or under. Len moves his mouth down Mick’s neck just a fraction and takes another bite, rolling the skin between his teeth and soothing with soft little kitten licks. The sharp pain is just the right side of pleasure, but it’s also impossible to fake. This is Lenny. This is real. This is – 

Mick lets out a little half-choked sob, and then a whine, and then tilts his head back to give Len better access. Five more bites along, and Len’s made it down to the point where Mick’s shoulders meet his neck, and Mick’s a fucking trainwreck. He’s got the love of his life back, and said love is sitting on his thighs, fully intent on marking Mick up as much as possible. Mick dares anyone to be in better shape when in his situation. 

“Mine.” Len purrs again, and this time when his teeth close tight Mick fucking writhes, gasping and begging with nothing more than sound. The movement is unintentionally powerful, throwing Len up a little, jerking him off his chosen seat. Len sits back, cocking his head just a little to one side. 

“Now, now, Mick.” he purrs. “You’re gonna stay just where you are and let me prove how much you’re mine, alright?” 

Mick shudders. 

“Not sure I can stay still with you like this.” he tells Len. Honesty and compromise – that’s what Kendra always said made for a good relationship, and she’s had plenty of experience. It’s probably a bit late to try and make whatever this co-dependent mess between him and Len is quote-unquote good, or for listening to Kendra, but that doesn’t mean Mick won’t try. Maybe if he does, Lenny won’t leave him again. 

“Want some help with that, then?” asks Len. 

Well. Fuck. Just when Mick thought he couldn’t get any more turned on. 

“Yes.” Mick says, when he’s got his heart out of his throat again. “Oh fuck, yes.” 

There’s a pause, and then Mick cocks his head.

“You’ve got – supplies for that?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

“I’ve been waiting for this.” Lenny tells him, swaggering over to a closet built into the wall. “Been here for all of a day, and all I could think about after they told me where you were was how I was going to claim you back.” 

Lenny shoots a look over his shoulder, smoldering hot, and Mick shivers, a full body thing that has nothing to do with room temperature. 

“Of course I have supplies, Mick.” 

Alright, Mick’s going to die, and his cause of death is going to be Lenny Snart telling him that the first thing he thought of when he was told that he was going to die and leave Mick with another team was how he was going to take Mick back for himself. Secondary cause: the fucking silk rope that Len’s got in his hands now, soft and luscious and black as pitch. Mick knows that there’s no mistaking how turned on he is in this moment. He swallows hard and does his best to lay still while Len twists and twines the rope around his arms, binding them to the headboard. He can’t help the moan that comes when Len pulls the padded leather cuffs out from under the end of the mattress and carefully curls his elegant fingers around Mick’s ankles, one at a time, curving and buckling until Mick’s trapped, bound down in a way he wouldn’t change for love nor money in this moment. 

“Now,” says Len, filthy smirk firmly in place, “where were we?” 

Len’s teeth have left marks all the way down Mick’s torso, tiny red roses that throb on occasion, reminders that Leonard Snart has always had his talons dug into Mick’s soul, and even now he’s not letting go. Len’s got the fingers of one hand rolling and pulling at Mick’s nipple and the other braced on the bed while he sucks a darker mark into Mick’s hipbone, right where it will be visible if Mick’s shirt rides up even a little. Mick’s been moaning almost non-stop, interspersed with fervent swearing and gasps of Len’s names that are more like prayers than anything else. Len’s still smiling smugly, but his pupils have dilated even more and his breathing is coming faster, so Mick can tell he’s not unaffected by the show Mick’s been putting on. 

“Fuck, Lenny.” gasps Mick, when Len lets go, finally. That one is going to bruise. 

“Actually, my plan was quite the reverse.” Len says, the end of it coming out as a little purring moan. Mick rolls his hips up as best he can into Len’s forearm, as useless as the motion is, and Len strokes his hands down the outside of Mick’s thighs almost to his knees, and then back up the insides, up to the point where he’s hovering right on the edge of where Mick wants him. Len looks up at him, and smirks. 

“Ask me.” he says, one hand staying put on Mick’s hip, the other reaching for something Mick can’t see. “Ask me for it.” 

“Fuck me.” gasps Mick, because Lenny asked him to and he wants it, he wants it so bad it aches. 

There’s a pause, and the sound of a lid being popped, and then Len’s finger – perfect, long, clever – curls into him and Mick’s pretty sure the sound he just made is the same one people make when they’re dying. Len’s free hand is petting the inside of his thigh, long, comforting strokes as he rotates his wrist and then slides in a second, alternating between murmuring soft praises and shushing Mick when he throws his head back and swears because it feels so good. 

“God,” says Len, after he’s worked Mick over good and proper, and Mick is attempting and failing to shove his hips down on three fingers. “Look at you.” 

He curls his fingers just right and Mick cuts off the scream before the whole thing makes it out of his throat. 

“It’s not nice to rob me of something I worked so hard for.” chides Len, lips twitching down just a tad. 

“Aren’t you a thief?” gasps Mick. 

“The best.” says Len, and the glint in his eye says he knows where Mick is going with this. 

“Then fucking steal it.” 

Len curls his fingers again, pushes down hard, and Mick lets himself scream. Len looks like the cat that got the cream, and Mick is panting when he realizes Len’s just stopped. He knows the look on his face is incredulous. 

“Do you want something?” asks Len, aiming for innocent and missing by a fucking mile. 

“Yes.” hisses Mick. 

“What do you want?”

“You fucking know what I want, Lenny.” It comes out like a snarl. 

“I’m thinking-“ says Len, almost contemplatively, as though he doesn’t still have three fingers sitting tease-full in Mick’s ass, “that you should beg me.” 

Mick doesn’t beg. Mick’s never (well, barely ever) begged. He might be Len’s, but that doesn’t mean – 

Len curls and pushes again, and sinks his teeth into the skin over Mick’s as-yet unmarked hipbone. Oh, fucking hell. 

“Fuck, Lenny, please, Lenny.” 

“Please what, Mick?” 

“Please fuck me please please please –“

Len pushes in taunt-slow, and Mick can see in his face that it’s taking everything he has to go slow. It’s not that Mick doesn’t appreciate it, but he’s been rearing to go since the moment Len looked at him the right way, and he’s running out of patience. If Lenny wants to mark him up, and for Mick to beg, there’s no reason not to turn that to his advantage. 

“Please, Lenny, please.” Mick starts, because Len’s hips are flush to his now, thanks to the moment he’d spent contemplating, and it’s easy because Len feels so good. “Fuck me hard, make me feel it.” 

Len sucks in a sharp breath. Yeah, this is going go exactly like Mick wants. 

“Take off the cuffs –“ Mick gasps, “bend me in half, come on Lenny, I need you.” 

Len’s gone as fast as fucking Barry would be, practically diving to Mick’s ankles to unbuckle the cuffs. Mick whines, feeling unpleasantly empty, but almost shivering with the anticipation of what will come next. 

“I wanna feel it, Lenny, wanna feel you in me every time I move, come on Lenny, make me yours –“ 

Len props Mick’s ankles over his shoulders and pushes back in, starting up a rhythm that’s deep and fast and perfect. Mick whines through his teeth because it’s perfect and it’s Len, and there’s no way he’s dreaming this, no hallucination knows just how to fuck him, no figment of his imagination could feel like the smack of Len’s hips against his own. 

“That’s it.” Len says, voice shaky. “Take it, take it.” 

Mick tosses his head back and forth, strains uselessly against the rope, and then sinks into the bed, pressing his head back into the pillows to stretch out his neck on his moan. Len groans too, like the act in itself is killing him – which it probably is. Lenny’s always had a thing for having Mick at his mercy. Len stretches forward and sinks his teeth back into one of the old marks, and the movement means his next thrust drags long and hard across all the right places and Mick can shove back a little into each thrust and grind into Len’s abs, and holy fuck this won’t take long. 

“Fuck, Lenny, there, right there!” 

Len grins, all teeth, pupils swollen so big they look black. 

“You gonna come for me?” he asks. “Come on my cock?”

“Yes, yes.” pants Mick, mostly because he can’t remember many other words. “More, Len, fuck, yes-“ – and now he’s exhausted his limited vocabulary and he can feel the heat building in his chest. 

“That’s it – come on, now, Mickey.” 

Mick’s almost there, he’s so close – he’s got Len so deep he’s not sure he’ll ever come out, and it feels right, like Len’s back under his skin, but there’s one more thing he needs.

“Say it again, Lenny, please, tell me again, tell me I’m –“

Len’s face washes over in relief and joy and all the things he never lets himself show anywhere else. 

“Mine, Mick, you’re mine, and I’m never going anywhere, I’m never leaving you again, you’re mine, mine, mine –“ 

Len sinks his teeth back in, and Mick is thrashing as he comes. Len’s still thrusting in, deep and long, when Mick’s come down, and the look on his face is indecipherable. Mick shifts a little and hums, because honestly he’s not that far from tipping into oversensitized territory, and Len pulls all the way out and retakes his seat on Mick’s hips, curling one hands around himself, pulling quick and just the way Mick knows he likes it. 

“Fuck, fuck, look at you, all mine.” says Len, nonsensical, and suddenly Mick is aware that the look Len had in his eyes before was reverence, and love.

“Yours.” Mick swears, throwing every feeling, every hard to explain emotion he’s had since he saw Len again behind the word. “All yours, come on Lenny, mark me up one more time, take me back, make me yours.”

Len whines through his teeth when he comes, just like he always has, and it sounds like serenity. 

Later, after Len’s come down from his high and taken a minute to survey his handiwork, he unties Mick’s wrists without giving up his seat. Mick shifts a little, runs his hands up the sides of Len’s thighs, and relaxes back into the bed. Lenny’s all-bar purring, still-blown eyes taking in the volume of marks he’s left on Mick. Speaking of, the low, steady ache of the bruises is starting to seep through the haze of pleasure Mick’s been living in for however long. He raises one hand to his neck, presses just so on one of the blooming purple marks Lenny’s mouth has left behind. The touch brings back the sense memory – Lenny’s hands wrapped around Mick’s wrists to hold him down, mouth hot and hard against Mick’s skin. A moan drags itself out of his mouth before he can stop it, and Len looks smug and content, kneading his hands across the bruises and come on Mick’s chest. Then he slides off, draping himself languidly across the mussed sheets. 

“There’s wipes in the side table and clothes in the drawer for you.” he tells Mick. “Thawne is going to want to talk to us.” His gaze is still hot, even after all of this. They’ll be back here before long. 

Mick rolls up to sitting, albeit gingerly because his lower back seems to have decided to alternate between jelly and red-hot needles, goes for the side table, and then meanders over to the drawer as he absent-mindedly cleans himself off. He pulls the clothes out one piece at a time, inspecting each one. 

“Looking for something?” asks Lenny. 

“Just trying to figure out where you put the ‘Property of Leonard Snart’ on these, or if you’re saving that for marking into my skin.”

Lenny grins, but there’s something contemplative under his gaze, like he’s weighing the possibility of something. 

“No tattoos.” Mick says, just to be safe. Lenny looks a little put out, but rolls out of bed to start dressing himself. It’s familiar, safe, normal, the two of then on opposite sides of the bed, redressing. They’ve been doing this for years, and Mick feels like he might be getting used to it, to having his Len back. Len skirts the foot of the bed to do up the last few buttons on Mick’s shirt, digs his fingers a little into the fabric, and hauls Mick down for another deep, dirty, searching kiss. 

 

“He was never one of them.” Len tells the rest of the Legion, later. “Were you, Mick?”

Mick can still feel the bites across his torso. The collar of his shirt barely hides the bruises on his neck. Len’s hands are marked in green-blue on his hipbones, and Mick’s still walking with a certain amount of care. The heat gun is on his hip, and his partner (his lover, his life) is leaning, hip cocked, against a crate. 

The world settles right on its orbit, and Mick contemplates the statement. 

 

No, he’s not one of them. Mick’s never been anyone’s but Len’s.


End file.
